


Blue

by undergroundnetworking



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Actual care, Angst, Anxiety, Art, Fluff, Grinding, Kissing, M/M, Sexy Times, Solid ending, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undergroundnetworking/pseuds/undergroundnetworking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hello! This is a little add on to my first fanfiction with a touch of angst to fulfill my angsty teen heart. Have a lovely day my loves and thank you for reading! <br/>P.S. This is very arty</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

Blue

Twelve hours. John paces the flat unable to rid his mind of worry. Sherlock has been in his room for twelve hours. Not once has he welcomed the knocking at his door and not once has he replied to the obnoxious tones of John's persistent texts. Within the room silky, thick magenta flies across a canvas, spilling somewhat haphazardly onto the walls, darkened by the drawn curtains. Within his heart is the same uneven spattering of magenta, slowly filling his mind with oxygen. 

John slumps into the leather armchair in the sitting room, resting just too close to the fireplace to become quickly overheated. He knows what Sherlock is doing and it terrifies him. The spiral of it. This used to happen so frequently when they had first moved in together but after a while John helped to slow his mind and the vigorous painting would be less frequent, less violent. His addiction would cease and eventually it stilled for six months all together. That was up until now. John knows it's not his fault... But what if it is? What if this time he's pushed Sherlock too far? Moving out was a feat but he was back now wasn't he and wouldn't be leaving again. Not the only one who's been betrayed. 

Blue streaks mirroring lightening strike the canvas and flood the veins in the room adjacent. 

John's heart races, this can only go downhill. He can only go downhill. They need to talk. Now. Why don't they ever just talk? John watch him paint? Help? Console? It's too much for both of them and far, far too much for Sherlock evidently. John gets out of the chair with some amount of effort required to push him off the fabric and before the making of a conscious or rational decision has occurred knocks on Sherlock's door. 1am. This is ridiculous and it can't be helping either of their mental states. Why did it pick up so much when he left? They would still see each other if not rarely, but this was different. John was the only person Sherlock's ever had and losing that albeit only for a month and under false pretences damaged him, severed his trust. Severed his heart. 

The knocking was left unanswered and again without too much thinking involved in the process John opened the door. The canvas was big. Bigger than the window would have been and so fraught with emotion and fragility. Reds clashing with blues, cremes slicing purples. Sherlock looked shocked at the entrance for a moment as if he renderd John incapable of opening a door, speechless but not angry. His face simply stood there, a small amount of glassiness in his eyes. Tears? John thought. Must be bad this time, haven't seen that before. John looked at the canvas and to the unmoving Sherlock before reaching over to take his hand which made Sherlock's face appear all the more confused, scrunching a little, maybe melancholy?   
Warmth.   
"Talk to me" John said more as a question than a statement to which the response was swift,  
"I just...can't".   
John closed his eyes,  
"Okay then...tell me about your art and if not just...art in general"  
Sherlock pouted for a minute, worrying John he'd freeze up and then clenched John's hand just receptively enough to to be, well...nice.   
"Art is the only thing that makes my heat beat fast in a good way. It feeds me, my brain, my heart, I can make my fantasies a reality, I can feel... I can interoperate what I like and it's the most powerful source of knowledge I've come across. It teaches of humanities triumphs and failures and it educates the world. Educates me. I can express how I feel and I don't have to say it..." Sherlock slowed his voice become less aggressive, "it feeds my mind and my soul. It's my release, and for a while I'm okay. Without art the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable..." He tails off and John feels an overwhelming sense of emotion that hasn't been present until now. As if his mind was a canvas. Thoughts, the paint that helps each individual so much. Shapes their entire lives. Sherlock still looks damaged but better. John looks up, "why has it started again now?"

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the pulse in Johns wrist, making eye contact with him and in that moment noticing his eyes are very like the blue paint. Just clearer. 

"You."  
The words sear through John's wrist where Sherlock's thumb sits and for a millisecond a spattering of every colour imaginable smudged into one threatens to knock him off balance. It is his fault. Sherlock's hands are remarkably still for someone who's shirt can be seen physically moving above their heart.   
John's words are quiet and quaking and a little to hasty and he closes his eyes.   
"Sit down... Sherlock..."   
They don't open when he begins again.   
"Sherlock I don't care how long it takes you, you can close your eyes, face my back or whatever but I will sit with you until you release every pent up emotion you're possibly harbouring about 'me'".  
Sherlock, staring down for long enough to have made a scientific study on the shadowy cotton of the bed covers dragged his eyes up to again meet Johns. More watery. Bad sign. He'll stop talking.   
"Sherlock..." John's hands hover over Sherlock's sides. Deep purple. "Can... I?"   
Sherlock's head drops carelessly along with a small droplet of water that's finally pushed its way out of his eyes which John takes as an invitation and pulls Sherlock into him, his eyes on his shoulder. Stillness. Shaking. Green. He can begin to feel his shirt become tacky to his skin as it wettens. John holds Sherlock a little awkwardly from manoeuvring cross legged but it's fine. comfortable. Fitting. In a sudden Sherlock pulls back forcefully shocking John into panic. Closed eyes. The crack of Sherlock's knuckles far to vicious to be healthy.   
"John." The word comes out pained and a tad mangled but lost to a sea of words which follow.   
"My mind is on fire. My body is on fire, I can't look at you but you fill my every waking thought. I thought I could push this away like I have with everything else but I can't. I haven't felt like this before you and I don't even know what I'm feeling now because I have nothing to compare it to and it's frustrating and consuming and it hurts and it hurts more when you're near me." Sherlock's fingertips reach to touch Johns which he's surprised to notice don't instantly move back.   
"Before you came into my life I didn't feel anything, not like I do now at least and you changed that, but you aren't like me so I pushed it away. Stray thoughts, deleted. Urges, persistently ignored and then you left and instead of getting better it got worse until you came back and it plummeted further again and I can't control it. I can't control myself. It's pain. I don't know what to do John. Saying this is no issue, I'd planned it for today. It's already eaten me like a parasite so could it be any worse to destroy us."

Pain at saying John's name. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. Bloodshot. Lightening. Red. John latticed his fingers into Sherlock's hand. Panic. Sherlock got off the bed. Visibly shaking now. Bad.   
"Don't. John. Don't make it worse. Don't force yourself into me because it will just hurt more. I know you're not like me and it's fine. You care about me. Worry. But it's not the same. I notice. I know you're not the same."  
John closed his eyes and stood up. The room shadowed now by the splattered paint in the changing light.   
"Well you're clearly not noticing well enough."  
John stood and took Sherlock's hand.   
"I'm not going to hurt you more. I'm not forcing this. I promise. I care... I love you."   
Truth.   
Sherlock sat down on the darkening white still looking frighteningly frail and shaken. John's hand. Warmth. Filtering to his core. Pleasant. Too clinical a word for an indescribable concept.   
"I'm not what you'd want. I can't do what you'd want. It's all new and boring and I'm too late to learn. Too late for you."  
Sherlock felt hollow. The type of hollow which comes after the disgusting onset of manic sadness only warmed by John's ridiculously encompassing hands managing by some unearthly ability to cut through nothingness. To transform it. The humming of blood where there was only darkness.   
"I don't care how you are. I like how you are and I don't care what we do just try to feel... Nice"  
John looked up in silence, to Sherlock sitting still and a little breathy,  
"Do you mean? John- no I don't just want you for physical relief- please- I don't even know if I like anything like that, like anyone like that, maybe, I just don't know."  
John stared at Sherlock's hands again, "okay, that's okay can we talk about it? You said you have urges...sexual urges? Do you touch yourself? Do you think of anybody...? What makes you unsure?"  
Sherlock looked down  
"Urges yes, but I have nothing to compare it to... As for the latter no, maybe once or twice in my high school years but uncalled for, just to suppress. I don't know if I feel it, I feel jumpy and out of control and tingly and it increases with you but like I said, nothing to compare it to... I'd like to know...physically...but then nothings guaranteed.  
Sherlock trailed off and John spoke again still staring at Sherlock's fingers,   
"okay, well if you would like to try..."  
Sherlock made a little too tender, whiny noise from his throat and looked up at John.   
"You're aching Sherlock. I think you're too far gone to go back on this."   
Sherlock looked down to John's hands, "how do we begin".   
John, studying Sherlock's hands now for some amount of time latticed his fingers into them, stroking over Sherlock's knuckles.   
"Okay?"   
"Mm"  
John brought his hand to Sherlock's too messy hair and leaned forward slightly pressing his lips to Sherlock's. Closed eyes. Waves. An ocean. Blue. 

 

2 am. One hour has passed but it feels like two years and thirty seconds all at once. All a blur. Too fast. The air is cold and frigid alike Sherlock, warmed only by John who seems to be radiating warmth and softness and an overwhelming sense of something Sherlock hasn't felt before along with an aching confusion, but like John said 'too far gone'. Sherlock's mind is a blur suffocated by John and colour and lust and excruciating fear. John's lips sit still on Sherlock's as if expecting Sherlock to pull away. Heat. When Sherlock responds by closing his eyes John starts to move and it's, well, good. When John pushes forward after a few minutes he allows himself to fall. Sherlock is on his back. Kissing. So much kissing. Mouth, neck, throat. It's a lapse of Sherlock responding and John groaning into him obviously he's okay at this and Sherlock's paralysis. Anything couldn't prepare him for this. For a man who's only felt in the last few years of his life this was overbearing. So many chemicals. So many emotions. Body humming. Everywhere. John's lips on his mouth. Moving. A combination of colours that's all so perfect and fast and Sherlock is a mess of panic and euphoria. John stops, pulling off slowly and sits on Sherlock's hips clearly seeing his distress. Sherlock's breathes, hair a mess of sweat and lust.   
"Sherlock"  
John is breathy, "Do you like this? Is this okay? Are you okay?"   
Sherlock breathes and shudders somewhat from the pressure of John's weight on him and from the fear coursing through his veins.   
"Sherlock, fuck I'm sorry", John gets off quickly and Sherlock closes his eyes.   
"No- John- it's okay- it's good- please- just- if you don't want this- don't- please John- don't just leave- please- don't just 'fuck' me and be gone tomorrow- I can't- John- I haven't done this before- I'm- groans- fear- I told you- I don't know this- please" Sherlock's eyes are clenched and he shudders again. Please John don't leave.   
John pushes his hand into Sherlock's tensely lying on the bed.   
"Sherlock, I promise you, I'm not going. We don't have to do this, it's okay."   
"No John, please, don't stop, I'm sorry, if you want to stop that's fine, I'll disappoint you, I don't even know if it will work."  
"You sure about that?" John looked down at Sherlock's pants which Sherlock hadn't noticed were doing anything until now.   
"Please"  
John sat back on Sherlock and started kissing him again with Sherlock being more responsive, more aware of himself and the sensitivity in his groin, groaning into John's mouth and hair and neck. Sherlock's heart thundered, his sweat dampening his shirt. John sat up and put his hands under Sherlock's back bringing his limp body up and pulling his shirt over his head. Skin. Sherlock wasn't perfect, barely, small scars and freckles and hair over his back and stomach. Sherlock whimpered into John's neck as one hand pulled at the roots of his damp hair. Again John pushed back into Sherlock collapsing him on the bed. Hands. Hair. Teeth. Bite marks on Johns lip Sherlock didn't remember inflicting. John seemed so calm running his fingers over Sherlock's racing heart. His mind a blur of pleasure and colour and and neon sparks flowing from the electric bars in his body, groans and whimpers escaping himself wherever John touched. John was reacting well too under Sherlock's touch, not complaining, making huffy breaking noises under Sherlock's hands when he could remember to move them. Sex. If that. Just rubbing up on each other and Sherlock was responding. The stiffness by his legs grew to match John who was kissing him sloppily and grinding his hips into Sherlock's causing an insanely pleasant sensation to rock up Sherlock's back. John pulling on Sherlock's hair coursing sensation thought him. What remained of clothing was removed somewhat slowly between kissing and and groaning and pushing against each other. Dark hair and firmness. Sherlock had maybe thought on this a few times. Not like this though. Not the passion and the mess and the fear and everything that made it so real and so disgusting and so beautiful. Pressure. Sherlock's mind flooded. Paralysis. John kissed him down messily, still managing to Sherlock's wonder to have somehow have remaining composed after the flashes of colour and white paint threatening to block all vision from Sherlock's eyes. 

3am. Warmth and wet and love stifle the bitter air of the room with the smell of sweat on skin and linen. Sleep. 

Light makes jagged patterns within the dark room still blocked by the heavy curtains. Panic. Last night flashes back along with a sickening feeling of emptiness. John has left. Insanity. Sherlock can't force himself to turn on the mattress. The sheets are still mangled and wet everything that Sherlock hasn't had and won't have again.   
Groans from next to his body.   
John. He hasn't left.


End file.
